Six Out of Seven

Bergen has seven mountains, and as of yesterday, I have hiked six of them. Of course, I scramble up Ulriken nearly every third day, and Løvstakken at least once a week, so I don’t think that I’ve been lacking in my attentions to them. But Damsgårdfjell has evaded me time and time again, and with only three days left in Bergen, one of which is Shabbat, and my suitcases lying untouched in my closet (actually, they’re completely ungettable—I have to take my shelves out in order to get the suitcases), I doubt I’ll have time.

Thursday morning Sarah and I tackled Lyderhorn, Bergen’s most westward mountain. It was also the least lovely of those I’ve hiked so far. The hike began behind an industrial dock, and we spent at least half an hour on cement before the path turned to proper rock and dirt and mountains scrambling. The view showed us the sea and the airport that I’ll be heading out of so very soon. On the peak we found a mad clutch of Norwegian schoolchildren, jumping chaotically in every direction. We decided to leave quickly. But we never found the trail down.

 That was a good dangler, right? You’re sitting there reading and wondering if I’m actually still on top of the mountain, dictating my blog posts by phone to a compliant sister-secretary. Nope. We bush-wacked our way through prickles and branches, slid down a few sheer rock faces, stepped deep into oozy mud disguised as land by moss, and after lots of hard work, came out on the wrong side of the mountain, across from a beautiful cemetery. We lingered there a bit, reading the names (I would love to give one of my children a Norwegian name, maybe Lars or Halvor or Astrid), and then headed back to the city.

That evening I went over to Yael’s and Birgitte’s to say bye, and we ended up going to the Løvstakken farm to buy eggs. Have you ever seen fresh eggs? Did you know that they come in different shapes and colors, and even, in the case of calcium deficiency, shapes? My friends showed me the Løvstakken owl in his crook of the tree. Or maybe they showed me to him. He regarded us every bit as solemnly as we did him, and turned his head to watch us as we moved.

The weather forecast says this is to be my last sunny day in Bergen. I woke up early to take full advantage, and, with heavy heart, climbed Landåsfjell up to Ulriken and around to the stony path down one last time. I heard bells and saw sheep grazing by one of the lakes at the top. How do they get them up there, I wonder? The sheer breathtaking beauty of every crag and pristine coldness of each lake gives me a small sharp pain when I realize I must leave it. How joyous, to simply move through beauty and accept it as the norm instead of having to hoard and hoard against return to ugliness.

While hiking down, my conscious mind busy with pre-nostalgia, another part of my brain got away from me and made up this hiking ditty. Normally I wouldn’t share, but since most of you won’t understand it, and the Norwegians are too nice to say anything other than “flink!” here goes:

Nå skal, nå skal, nå skal vi gå på tur,

Nå skal, nå skal, nå skal vi gå på tur.

Gå oss opp eller gå oss ned,

Vi gå oss altid å finne oss fred.

Og så, nå skal, nå skal vi gå på tur.

Eller gå vi ved fjord, eller gå vi ved fjell,

Å spise brødskive er viktigst del,

Og så, nå skal, nå skal vi gå på tur.

Å gå på tur kan er lit vanskelig,

Men utsikten er altid veldig nydelig,

Og å sovne i hytta er meste koselige,

Og så, nå skal, nå skal vi gå på tur.

I should be completely forlegen about putting this online, but one needs a rhythm when hiking, and most people aren’t bashful about the weird things their minds get up to while they’re absent, so why should I be? 

In the afternoon I ran a slew of errands in town and then came to Katten for the teacher’s goodbye fest. I sat with the youngest teachers, a sweet and hesitant crew that I’ve made friends with over the course of the year. We talked in between speeches and flower-offerings and songs (they all chimed in on an old folk song about strawberries that turn into boys that turn into memories), and then headed back to our teacher’s cabin to chill with the beer Anita had brought, and finally I said goodbye to everyone in a hearty farewell and came home to prepare for my last Shabbat in Bergen.

I gave Anita thank-you flowers, though her I'll see again before I leave